The Cold Prophecy
by librocubicultarist
Summary: Hermione has spent the last three years in a muggle insane asylum. She escapes, but finds the wizarding world still in tatters, and that what they thought was the end may have been just the beginning. A twisted plot causes her to turn to the one wizard that can help her foil the plan: Draco Malfoy. If you start, pls read the first five chapters! It's a slow start but will pick up!
1. Part 1: Chapter 1

Fat, heavy raindrops pelted from the sky and exploded against any surface it reached; water glided on the glass of windows like ice skaters, blurring the outside world. It smashed against the pavement, shattering- then recollecting into puddles that created sheets and sheets of water on the ground. It echoed as it sprinted through rickety gutters, threatening to break the aluminum.

Psych Ward patient 96 let her neck slacken and head drop to the window with a light thud, drinking in the cool ravishment it provided. Yearning and desire built up through her body, tension rising until she thought she might combust. She could imagine it so vividly in her mind; she could break the window -it was weakest at the corners- and she could lower herself down to the grass with a rope made of her bed sheets, like they had taught her to do more than a decade ago at school in case of a fire. Then would come the part she could get drunk on for days; she could feel the squish of the sopping grass beneath her, throw her arms out and dance as the water drenched her and absorbed into her clothes, laugh as she spun and jumped and sprinted in the dark, her burning muscles allowing a fulfilling emotion to spread through her limbs, and could feel the rain rolling against her skin, her face, dripping into her eyes and sticking to her lashes. She could drown, get lost, forget herself in this fantasy; and she found that she really, really, wanted to.

She wanted it so badly. She wanted to be let out of this cage like she never wanted anything. She wanted it more than she wanted to live, and she had been tortured, watched her friends die, and watched her family forget every trace of her, like she had never existed and had a defiance to live with the destruction of a hurricane meeting a volcano. She had endured more than most people could even fathom, and yet, here she was, locked in a room with no more than a bed, a night stand, and a measly bookshelf filled with children's picture books.

The tension caught fire, and rebellion sparked in her soul. "I am not crazy!" she shrieked. She flipped her nightstand over, smashing the minuscule flower vase and lamp. "I'm not crazy!" she screamed again. She was trembling- no, she was shaking. She was cracking, and if she didn't stop now, she would shatter. If she wanted to, she could set fire to this place. Three words passing over her lips, and the whole damn building would be in flames. If she wanted to, she could do anything her burning heart desired, and that's what scared her more than the thought of being locked in this place forever; that if she wanted to, she could destroy anything in her path; that very easily, in fact, she could become quite like the monster responsible for her being here. The worst of them all, though, was that she knew she had very little time left of her control; that is, if she were to remain here.

She sank to the floor in the midst of shattered porcelain and glass, her chest quivering with shallow breaths, and her fingers pressing into her biceps so hard they would leave bruises. She rocked back and forth or her knees, wanting to cry but finding she had no tears to be shed.

That's how the nurse found her when she opened the door. She walked in a hurried pace over to the patient, careful to keep a safe distance away, a syringe at the ready hidden behind her back. "What happened?" the nurse asked in an authoritative voice that she had been trained to use. When that didn't work, she tried, "What do you need?"

Patient 96 turned towards her, slowly. She had a wild mane of ginger brown ringlet curls, and golden hazel eyes. Her face was bloodshot like she had been crying, but her skin was dry. "Freedom," she breathed. "I need to be free."

Whatever it was, the nurse found herself wanting to comply with her request deeply. But the two of them both knew that was not going to happen. Certainly not now, and most likely, never. Something had broken this girl beyond the state of repair.

"Ms. Hermione Granger," the nurse started. "You know I can't do that."

A/N:

Hey guys- this is my first time publishing anything on fanfiction, so don't judge me to harshly. However, PLEASE leave criticism! I love feedback to make my writing better, so really, please tell me what you think in the comments. They're thoroughly appreciated!

-lubrocubicultarist


	2. Part 1: Chapter 2

Oops.

That was the only thing that went through her mind, the only thing that could go through her mind.

Oops.

Whatever it was in that moment, it had pushed her over the edge. Without meaning to, the window that she so desperately wanted to break had exploded, and hundreds of tiny fragments of glass had showered the two females in the rooms. Cold wind had blasted through the gaping whole in the wall, water spraying and dampening everything in sight.

The realization dawned on her that this was the first time in three years that she had been exposed to the elements. And that, she thought. Was not okay.

The nurse, who had just finished the healthy amount of screaming, chose the wrong words to speak. "They really should have listened to me when I told them we needed new windows. Did I say they would go in the next storm? Yes!" She adjusted her standard issued white nurse's top and attempted to fix her mussed hair.

Of course, Hermione knew that it wasn't wind that had caused the window to shatter, it was her. And now that she had had a taste of her magic once again, she wasn't about to go back now.

 _Wind?_ she thought. _I'll show you fucking_ wind _._ Her head fell back as she unleashed a high, terrible scream. She had mastered wandless magic years ago- and now, she had the prime opportunity to use it. And by god, she did.

First, the nurse suddenly found herself unable to move. Then, in slow motion, time appeared to rewind itself as first the water on the floor rose from the ground, and disappeared out the window, then that was followed by the glass being lifted from the hardwood floor and pieced back together in the window frame. Next, the the vase and lamp reformed, the table flipped itself right side up. And then, the room was still, quiet, and had no trace of the past five minutes activity.

Power hummed in her body as adrenaline rushed gleefully in her veins. It was addictive, and she wanted more, more, more. No, didn't want it, she needed it. She craved it.  
She imagined what it would like to be to kill somebody; to watch the life go out of their eyes and know that they would never walk, talk, see, love or be loved because of her, because of the power she possessed. The nurse would be free for just long enough to squirm. Just long enough to show her the fear in her eyes, the desperation on her face and relish it before the good part. Two words, and a flash of green light, and then boom. Nothing.

"Avada Kedavra!" The room was suddenly a fire ball of green light so bright you had to close and shield your eyes. Hermione fell, crumpled on the ground, her brain once again hers. She thought she knew what it felt like to feel guilt, but she was so, so wrong.

She was woken from her spot on the ground -she paused. She was not inside the asylum. She was outside, in dying grass. She sat up, fear washing down her back like someone had just poured a bucket of ice water on her head. This wasn't right, this wasn't real. It was all just a bad dream. In the distance, she saw a huge, looming castle atop a hill, twinkling with lights and lanterns. Her throat closed. Hogwarts.

But that was not all. Lights of hundreds of different colors sparked everywhere, screams echoed. Fire burned.

She was back at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Faster than she could blink, she found her shaking, screaming self in the heart of the battle once again. Lupin, Tonks, McGonagll- they were all there, fighting. What caught her eye the most, though, was her. She watched herself fend off hexes, killing curses, and send more right back at the Death Eaters. She ducked and dodged fired like she had been doing it her whole life.

Hermione thought she knew how this ended. She would fall, lose her wand, and activate a Port Key that was supposed to send her to the door of the Room of Requirement, but sent her to... she didn't know where in Scotland she had been. She knew it was Scotland only because of accents. But what she saw was not what she remembered at all.

A Death Eater- she couldn't tell who, what with their masks, came out of no where behind her. A hex as sharp as a blade shot from what she gathered to be a man's wand, and sliced across her back, cutting deep, before she could react. Her bawl was lost in storm of screams identical to hers, and no one turned to help. Her knees buckled as deep crimson suddenly was dripping from her blue t shirt, and she could see herself already dizzy from blood loss.

She watched her own head hit the ground, and the grass beneath her slowly -as if being painted- turn red. The Death Eater before her raised his wand for the killing blow, oblivious to her fingers curling around her refound wand besides her.

"AVAD-"

 _"SECTUMSEMPRA!"_ she screamed, flailing her arm in front of her to direct the bolt of deep red chasing itself from the tip of her wand. It hit the Death Eater square in the chest, causing him to stagger, and in instants, scarlet was blooming in sharp, straight lines across the jet black of his cloak. He looked at his chest, as if shocked, and touched a gash gingerly with a gloved hand and inspected it, rubbing his wet forefinger and thumb together. By now, he was drenched in blood like one might be drenched in water if they had stood outside in a downpour, and she doubted he would remain alive for long. However, she was losing consciousness herself. Her grip on her wand was loosening and her sight was becoming hazy.

Hermione watched the man collapse, folding in on himself and landing on her past self. She her scream, and as if her memory was a jigsaw puzzle with the last piece being fitted in, she remembered exactly what had happened, and she was once again in one body, pinned between the ground and a dead Death Eater.

She screamed, fear crawling at her throat, pain erupting through her bones at the new sudden weight. Her eyes felt wide and cold as the electric terror sent adrenaline spiking her way through her veins. The Death Eaters mask fell away, revealing the identity of the person she had just taken life from. She had been shocked in her life, but not like this. Nothing compared to this, though something should. Because Lucius Malfoy was a quite widely known Death Eater, and it shouldn't surprise her that he was there. She knew he had been fighting.

And yet, she could not wrap her brain around the fact that she had just killed Lucius Malfoy.

 _Draco_ Malfoy's father.

Somehow, she managed to muster enough strength to shove the man atop her off. His extremities were twisted at odd angles, his grey eyes staring yet unseeing into sky alight with all colors of the spectrum.

Hermione didn't know if it was blood loss or guilt that crashed down on her, but she felt sick. Like someone had carved her open and squeezed and twisted her stomach into a knot, and then forgot to stitch her back up. She had never watched the life drain from someone before; she hadn't until this moment, thought as life like an object; something that could be smashed, something that could be lost, something that could be possessed and then taken away. She didn't know how to describe it exactly, but that was the best way she could think of.

Death had never been close to her. Her parents and grandparents were both alive and well, even if they didn't remember her, and she had never had a pet. But looking at the man, though a monster, she had just killed, she knew he was a father and husband too. She knew what Draco had done for the Order, for their side of the war, and now she had killed his father. Her brain felt like it had just been tossed in the blender and pureed to a pulp.

Her heart was fluttery like she was nervous, cold sweat breaking across her skin. She was in a battle, and if she didn't heal herself, she would be dead in moments.

She tried to stand. Whether it was her legs that gave out or that she slipped on grass wet with blood, both hers and Malfoy's, she didn't know. All she knew that one moment, she was standing, in the kernel of The Battle of Hogwarts, and next she was face down atop the dead body of Lucius Malfoy.

A second later, she found herself in whoosh of air, so strong it was as if she had just jumped from a plane. And then, silence. Not a bird chirping, a cricket humming. She was completely alone in the middle of a field. No Hogwarts, no battle, no Lucius Malfoy.

Just her, capitulating to the darkness closing in.

And just like that, she was back to the asylum as easily as she had left.

She wasn't sure of what just happened, but it had knocked the breath from her lungs with a mind racing so fast it was second only to her heartbeat, third to the speed at which with tremor in her body quaked.

She found that she could indeed, cry again, and that her face was soaked with salty liquid. She tried to breathe, wheezes coming through her mouth and nose in shallow gasps. In a swift jerk, her eyes were on the nurse, who found herself suddenly able to move once more. She stumbled forth, shaking ferociously, much like Hermione herself. She grabbed a shelf for support, her fingers going white with the strength she squeezed the wood with.

"WITCH!" she cried, pupils so dilated with fear and craze that her eyes appeared black. " _WITCH_!"

Hermione barely heard her. Buzzing took over her hearing, shell-shock vanquishing her control over her mind. She felt petrified, bombarded, and disbelieving all at once. Was that really what had happened? No, it couldn't have been. But it made more sense than what she thought was the truth. They had found her, or so they said, permeated in blood. The Sectumsempra fit logically into that account, and if she really had been that traumatized, it also made sense that she had forgotten it, and replaced it with something much more bearable.

It was too much for her to take in at once.

She felt it all boiling, pressurizing inside her, combining with the desperation of the past three years. She shattered. Before, the window, the stunning spell and repairs, those had been mere cracks; now the fissures they left gave, and she felt her magic take a mind of its own.

For three, agonizingly long seconds, time stopped. It was frozen. Then it all exploded, both literally and figuratively.

Flames without a noticeable source erupted, causing everything flammable in the room, which was most everything, caught fire.

And then an explosion, maybe from a gas tank- who knows? Caused the building to shutter, and Hermione, to find herself, standing a safe distance away from the Scottish Royal Psychiatric Center as it burned. Smoked plumed in the sky, blotting out even the stars. She stood there, shivering in the cold, a sense of awakening overcoming her, watching her cage for the past three years, turn to ash.

A/N:

Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading coming back to reading my next chapter, or for reading both of them now! PLEASE comment with criticism, praise, or just your thoughts! I know it's starting out slow, but I promise Draco will be in the next part... Any suggestions are greatly appreciated!


	3. Part 1: Chapter 3

Draco Malfoy stared. With his mouth agape, eyes bulging, and eyebrows high above his head, he all but forgot his first name. There was just no way in fucking hell that this was possible. There was just no way.

"Um, Draco?"

"BLOODY HELL!" he yelled as he jumped from his chair, causing it to clatter against the ground loudly. Tracy Davis jumped with a yelp, cautiously lowering the tip of her boyfriends wand away from her face. Her dark eyes seemed to show both shock and amusement, like she couldn't decide if she were concerned or not.

"Not the response I was looking for," she said, sounding more uncomfortable than joking. Frowning, she decided that it was a very real possibility that Draco had not heard her question, due to the fact the had turned a much paler shade of bone white than normal. "Are you okay? You look like you just saw The Bloody Baron for the first time."

"No. I mean, yes, of course. Yes. Yes. Will you... leave?" he tried to make his voice sound pleading, but to no avail. Even he sounded rude to him, and that was saying something. His mouth- scratch that. His _brain_ was having issues making sense of anything, least of all words.

Tracy blinked. And then she blinked again. "You want me to go? _Now_?" her voice started to raise as anger became evident on her face. "Did you even here what I asked you?"

Draco ignored her. The letter in his hand seemed to be the only relevant thing in the world right now, and everything else seemed just in the way, a nuisance.

"Are you even listening to me? DRACO!" she yapped in his ear, waving her arms around to try and catch his attention. Her eyebrows furrowed and her brown eyes hardened. If he thought she would stand to be taken advantage of like this, he could kiss her ass.

Like he was in a trance, he opened his front door and pointed towards the bustling city street, eyes glazed and heart pounding against his sternum. "Now, preferably," he added ignorantly.

Her jaw dropped. Then she closed it, and opened it back up again. "You're an ass, Draco." She stabbed an accusing finger against his hard chest, quite painfully, he might add and glowered at him square in the eye. "I was idiotic enough to put up with you for this long, and the only thing I can say, is that I hope you have a nice time dying alone and despised." Everything came back to her. The way he refused to hold her hand, the isolated dinners where he was right in front of her, and yet miles away. The snide remarks about her habits, the rude comments about the way she looked. Refusal to just do normal couple things. And she had put up with all of it for what? Fantastic sex? There were plenty more options for that. With him, she was done. Utterly, fucking, done.

And he just stood there, looking like a dead man, eyes and mouth gaping like a fish, pointing out the door for her to leave. There was a long, awkward pause before she burst, "Are you just going to say nothing?"

He blinked, gave her a once over, and decided on the worst possible words to say. "You have spinach in your teeth." He swore he saw the exact moment the distended vessel in her forehead ruptured, but he was a bit distracted by the way her face had turned a deep shade of scarlet. She clamped a hand over her mouth, her tongue pressing against her upper lip as she tried to extract the offending vegetable from between her gums.

Lips smacking and steam protruding from her ears, she gave him one last earful before she marched down the front steps and slammed the door closed. "You know what your problem is? You don't know how lucky you are to have had someone like me to have put up with you. You think you're so much better than everyone, don't you? But you know what? Life gave you a second chase, and even went as far to provide you with someone who all they did was love you, and your throwing it all away just because you're mopey bitch upset with all the things that have gone wrong in your life. Well, WHO'S FUCKING FAULT WAS THAT? Grow up and get over yourself, Malfoy. I sure as hell won't stick around to hope you do." Without hesitating for a moment, she followed through with aforementioned, and she was gone.

He stood there, shocked (more about the letters content than his girlfriend's sudden dump), listening to the sound of the door slam reverberate through the house.

* * *

Hermione hadn't realized she was so out of shape. She should have, of course, due to the fact that she hadn't had any purposeful exercise in the past three years, except for some self-condemning push-ups, squats, and crunches. She couldn't remember the last time she had run, and now, she was regretting it.

Sweat dripped from her hairline and soaked the front of her white cotton shirt. She hadn't been able to get any new clothes yet, so she was still wearing the asylum uniform: white cotton pants, white cotton shirt, white cotton sports (thankfully) bra. She had had a pare of cheap, flimsy slippers that looked like the ones you might get for free at a Hilton, but they hadn't been able to withstand more than a few pounding strides of running against pavement.

For the millionth time in the past twenty-four hours, she regretted not having thought this through. Her lungs took in sharp, painful gaps that felt like stabs to the chest, her swinging biceps felt like someone had just set them on fire, and her abs had long ago gone numb, but sometimes reminded her of their presence with fierce cramps. And her legs, God, her _legs_. They felt like led, jelly, and lava all at once. She calculated she had one minute until she went into cardiac arrest. Her ears were ringing, her vision green, and her stomach was rolling in a secure future of vomiting.

Thankfully, she could see her destination ahead of her, and she only had a few more yards to go.

Why wasn't she walking, you ask? Great question. It had to do with the sound of muggle cop cars whining their sirens and flashing their quite annoying lights.

Why didn't she use magic, you ask? Also a great question. That had to do with her extreme fatigue. She was worried that if she tried to use wandless magic, which is quite difficult and energy comsuming, that she might accidentally start another fire, or simply just turn herself blue.

Coughing like she had contracted pneumonia, she stumbled towards the brick wall of a building just ahead of her for support as her legs threatened to give out. She gasped like an asthmatic sloth and forced herself to make her way around the corner towards a muggle fashion shop. She fruitlessly attempted to slow her breathing as the tiny bell chimed when she swung open the door, and ignored the shocked and curious stares of the cashier and other customers. Her face was blotchy, she was sure, and she was covered in sweat. She probably looked like she had just finished a marathon, except she was wearing a mental hospital outfit.

She pushed her way to the back of the store shaking with the effort as her muscles so desperately wanted to just give out. Her vision swayed, and her knees buckled. She grabbed a rack of clothes, causing the row of shirts on their hangers to slide off the bar.

"Miss, miss? Are you all right?" a concerned voiced asked, but it sounded like she was under water. Her heart thundered in her ears, and the buzzing was still present.

"Oh, yes-"-deep, sick sounding cough-"I'm-"-heavy gasps of deep breathing-"quite all right." She heaved herself up from the ground, legs trembling like jell-o beneath her. "Could you do me a favor and give me a size estimate?"

The lady in front of her appeared to be in her thirties, with soft brown hair and eyes and a friendly smile. She was clad in loose fitting light wash jeans, and a flowered blouse that had buttons going down the middle. Black, thick rimmed glasses in the shape of rectangles that almost qualified as squares framed her eyes.

"Um, sure..." she looked her over from toe to scalp, eyes squinted, and then smiled. "I'd guess you're a 4. I bet these pants-" she grabbed a pair of dark colored skinny jeans-"and this shirt-"-she picked up one of the shirts that had fallen from the rack from the floor, which was a long sleeved grey and white baseball tee-"would look great on you."

Hermione snatched them from the lady's hand and scampered towards the dressing room, plucking a pair of black sneakers that looked about her size from a shoe stand on the way. She slammed the stall door shut and yanked her shirt over her head, using it to try and wipe the sweat from her body. Her heart leapt at the sound of sirens wailing in the distance.

The hospital had reported her missing when they had counted their patients. Everyone had been alive and _present._ Except for one; her. She felt bad for her nurse, who would have to be obliviated. But for that to happen, she needed to get in contact with the ministry. Surely they had been looking for her, so it shouldn't be too hard. She could send a patronus, or, she could attract the attention of the local Ministry by doing some sort of public stunt. Yes, she decided. That was her best course of action. Then she would get back to London. She hadn't seen Ron and Harry in so long... she wondered if Harry and finally worked up the courage to propose to Ginny. It wasn't like she would have said no. She wondered if Ron had met someone... she dismissed the idea. Three years was a long time, but they were all still young. Barely even in their twenties.

She yanked on her jeans, sighing in relief when she found that they fit nearly perfectly. They were a little short at the ankles and a bit wide at the hips, but other than that, they were fine. She stuffed her feet into her sneakers, finding them about two sizes to big, and gathered her mane of bushy hair into a fist.

 _Just do it, s_ he told herself. She squeezed her eyes shut, and with a sharp convulse in her chest in contempt and protest, she murmured a spell that left her hair short, cut all the way to the cape of her neck. A second spell and her hair was bright blond, straight, and sleek. The exact opposite of what it was before.

She heard the door open, and a deep male voice yell for the store owner.

"Did a young girl come in here?" he shouted. She could here the rustling of clothes being pushed aside as she imagined him searching for her frantically. "About five six, mane of bushy hair, white outfit?" he yelled, and she heard the lady who had helped her answer.

"Yes, yes... she's in the dressing room." Their footsteps sent adrenaline rushing through her veins. She snapped her head up, looking for a window, eyes wide and searching desperately.

Ha. There, above the bench, was a small window that would have to do. She stood up, not bothering to test her weight on the rickety wood. It groaned beneath her as she heard the footsteps getting louder. Her heart thumped. Getting caught by the police would be bad, but not the end of the world. She would have to use more magic, meaning obliviating more people, more hassle for the ministry. It was better, and so much easier, if she could get out now.

"Alohomora," she whispered, and the window opened with a snap. She shoved up, creating a space just large enough to wiggle through. She held herself up with her arms, and before she could think to hard, launched herself through. Pain wrapped around her body, and shot down through her shoulder as she landed heavily. She didn't have time to dwell on that now. Without a second thought, she had rolled and was on her feet again, sprinting yet again towards the street packed with muggles. She would blend in there. They would never find her, especially when they were looking for a brunette with long bushy hair.

When the cop kicked down the door to her stall a moment later, he found himself in a tiny, empty room, with wind gusting from the open window.

* * *

A/N:

Okay, I know these chapters are short, and that it's a slow beginning... but it's important! Draco and Hermione will meet soon, I promise. I know Draco's seen was rushed and short. I hope it wasn't too bad. I'm planning on publishing short chapters like these everyday until Friday, and then I'll start writing ones between 7,000 and 10,000+ words each week. I hope you're enjoying! **PLEASE COMMENT!** Anything and everything is helpful. **Anything that you want to see happen in the next few chapters, comment on that too!** Also, I feel like an infomercial, but tell your friend to read!

You guys are the best!


	4. Part 1: Chapter 4

He was the only one.

He had known that was going to be the only one, of course, but it still stung that this his mother hadn't shown up. He had told himself that she wouldn't repeatedly, tried to talk himself out of expecting her to be there. But deep down, he had known she was going to say her final goodbye to her husband. Even if it had ended like it had, she would come at least to see her only child. But that little part of him had been wrong.

He had waited for a long time to start. At first, he thought she was just late. But his heart had started to pound, and doubts whispered that his mother was the most punctual witch on the earth. She wasn't coming.

So he sat there, by himself, in the white plastic folding chair, third to the left from the middle in the front row. There had been fifty people invited, and fifty chairs set up. He doubted anyone else had even bothered to read the whole invitation. He didn't know what words to describe the emotion he felt, or rather, the emotions. Regret? No. Remorse? No. Sadness? Maybe, but not likely. Relief? Very plausible. Guilt at feeling relief? That, was the closest he could get to the truth.

The day, which had started out in mockery of him, had started to turn grey. The sky had been clear, bright blue, birds had been singing, the plants had been luxuriant and a deep vibrant green. Now, there were no birds chirping. There were no bustles of chipper people buzzing with chatter, and dark grey shadows turned the sunniest corner into darkness. Darkness was where fear grew cold, where surreptitious doubts slipped into people's minds unnoticed.

Thunder roared in the distance, or maybe it was the blood rushing in his ears. He couldn't tell. Finally, the minister stopped talking. Trying to be kind, he guessed, he asked for people who wanted to say goodbye one last time. He pretended to search the crowd. He pretended like this was any other funeral, like any other wizard sitting in the coffin before him. But he could see the hate curling like billows of smoke in the ministers eyes, and he could tell he couldn't wait for him to look away so he could spit on his father's body. He didn't know whether to hate him or love him for that. It was the gut wrenching battle he had been going through ever since the notice arrived on his plate, or, more accurately, since he realized his father's beliefs were wrong, and it had just been brought back to the surface after he had pushed it down, down, down, and stamped on it until he couldn't find it anymore.

It was too complicated for him to ponder about, it would drive him crazy. He resented the man in the coffin, but he was his father. Should he love his father above all else, or hate him for the crimes he's committed above all else? He wanted to spit on the body just like the minister, but he also wanted to throttle him for disrespecting his dead parent. It was maddening, and he hated his father even more to leave him with his mess to sort through.

The minister reached to close the lid.

" _Wait,_ " he rasped. The minister looked surprised, and also offended, but he granted his wish.

On wobbly legs he stood up from his chair, and made his way over to the casket.

"You, probably think that I'm an arrogant bastard, just like him." He pointed to the dead man before him.

It took the minister a moment to figure out that it was him he was talking to. He looked up to meet his gaze.

"And you're probably right. But I am not my father. And I am not here to mourn him. You can judge me all you like; I don't give a damn about your opinions on me. But don't you dare think that just because his blood runs in my veins, that his mind is at work in my head. I have a past I'm not proud of. You do, too. But mine will follow me around until long after the day I die, and maybe that's justice, but maybe, it's an unfair punishment for a child who was taught all that all the wrong things in life are right. You can think whatever you want about me, besides believing that I am _him._ " He looked down at his father, and the the memories that he had been trying so hard to suppress burst forth.

He knew that if he looked, he wouldn't be able to look away. He found himself staring until his vision blurred with tears, not for his father, but for the little boy his father ruined.

"Draco,"

He froze. He knew that voice like he knew his own. It couldn't be. There was just no way. Her voice, however, was all he needed to snap out of his trance. He whipped his head around to face the feminine form that was shuffling uncomfortably on the outskirts of the tent.

"Granger," And as if her name were a spell, the swollen black clouds in the sky erupted, and rain fell from the sky in torrents, pounding against the ground like thousands of horses' hooves.

* * *

"If this doesn't work, I don't know what will," Hermione said to herself as she gathered her strength to perform her -what she hoped to be- her final act. Using her palms like she would use a wand, she thrust out her arms. She had no idea if this was actually doing anything or not, but she was running out of energy, and it helped her mentally, if not anything else. When she wrecked havoc on the hospital, those spells had been in uncontrollable fits of rage that had caused her to lose command over her own will. Guilt as strong as a sucker punch overwhelmed her as the memory of the thoughts that had gone through her her head pricked her as a needle might a finger. She was losing it. That was the only explanation that she could think of.

A yell escaped from her mouth in a burst of effort, and dazzling flames of color detonated across the night sky. Green, red, blue, and gold sparks cascaded from the sky in the wake of the explosion like fragments of shattered stained glass.

Hermione, mesmerized by her own work and caught up in a memory about a fireworks show she went to with her parents, didn't notice the first pop. Or the second pop. But she did hear the third one. She jumped as the sound waves broke across her eardrum and registered in her brain, yelping like a startled chicken. Recognition, however, worked its magic a moment later and a grin formed on her chapped lips.

"It took you long enough," she said, trying to place the familiar face of one of the aurors in front of her. "I've been trying to get your attention all night. I know you might not believe me, especially when I look like this, but, I'm Hermione Grang-"

"We know who you are," a voice cut her off.

Confusion muddled Hermione's brain. "Well, then, why haven't we gone to the Ministry? I need to talk to Harry, and Ron, and-"

Silence was her only response, and the group of cloaked figures advanced on her, and she took a step back. A twig snapped beneath her heel- it sent a jolt of fear through her system as she turned to look behind her. She was nearing the edge of the cliff like hill; behind her was a steep, and long, drop towards the row of shops that she had just escaped from, then across from that was more stores with a pedestrian filled street in between. Beyond that was a vast, open field, which from far out in the distance the fireworks seemed to be originating from.

Fear worked its way into her brain, as if it were a spider spinning a web. "Wait, are you not aur-"

"Hermione Granger, you are under arrest for aiding of Lord Voldemort in the Second Wizarding World."

Hermione couldn't suppress the shock. "Excuse me? I have done no such thing-" Petrificus Totalus hit her in the chest, and her arms snapped to her side, her legs bound together, and her shocked face froze with her eyes wide and lips parted in an "O".

They didn't bother to catch her as she fell backwards. The wind was knocked out of her in whoosh of air, and for a moment, she couldn't get any back in.

 _No, no, no, no,_ she thought. _This doesn't make any sense._ Her brain whirled like gears turning in a clock; She knew what had happened; she had killed Lucius, and something she fell on, or a maybe a spell, sent her to an empty field somewhere in Scotland. She should have been Missing In Action, not labeled a Death Eater. Unless... someone had lied. Someone who hated her could have told the aurors that she had helped Voldemort, and that was why she had disappeared. They must have started an investigation, and have found all sorts of planted evidence.

Hermione felt sick. Who hated her that much that wasn't on the opposite side of the war? She supposed it didn't have to be anyone fighting alongside the Order; a Death Eater trading names for a reduced sentence could have done it, and it could have worked just as well.

But, why? If it was a Death Eater, why her? Because she killed Lucius? Lots of people killed Voldemort's puppets in the battle, and she doubted all of them had been framed.

 _It doesn't make sense,_ she thought for the umpteenth time.

It didn't matter the cause of her arrest, though. Because in a moment, they would apparate to the ministry. Her heart calmed at this thought. Surely, Harry or Ron would speak for her, and they would let her go. This was all just one big misunderstanding, and soon, it would be over.

But even as she felt herself relax, something still was off. If Harry or Ron hadn't vouched for her before, why would they now?

* * *

The ministry was wrong. It was all wrong. It was better than it had been under Voldemort's control, of course, but it still was wrong. The lights were dim and low, and it was eerily silent, even though people were everywhere; behind desks, just walking around in small, huddled clusters, not speaking above a whisper. You could hear a pin drop.

They released her of her binding spell, but her hands were bound from thick rope after they had used Incarcerous on her arms. She squirmed against it, but to no avail. She was stuck.

"Minnie, alert the Minister that we've got Hermione Granger," said the auror with his hands around her wrists, guiding her. Minnie's eyes snapped up at the mention of Hermione's name.

"Hermi-, yes, of course, I'll do that right now,"

People started to turn and stare. Murmurs suddenly spread through the room, people pointing, faces full of fear. Hermione felt her own fear creep under her skin, as she let her eyes dart from face to face, looking for someone she knew, or even someone who didn't look like they were staring at a resurrected Voldemort. Her breath quickened as she turned to face more people, more scared eyes. She met a witches bright blue one's, and the witch looked away. Her eyes widened, a gulp slipped over a lump in her throat. She grasped contact with a wizard's brown eyes, and he averted his stare after just a moment. Her heart beat faster and faster as she became more frantic. She had the same response from everyone.

Everyone thought she was a murderer, a monster.

She could feel another tantrum start to build. Flashbacks burst in miniature movies before her eyes; a doctor, and a dark, cold room. This is what made the nurses think she was insane, when she lost control of what was real and what was not. What was present, and what was memory.

She grasped for sanity, but it eluded her clasp. The memory clouded out her thoughts.

 _The air was putrid and damp, smelling of mold and death. She remembered the hard, frigid metal beneath her, arms bound behind the chair, ankles tied tight with a thick rope, one that should have been used for docking a boat, her flesh tearing and burning. She vividly imagined the blood that had been dribbling from her lips, the way her tangled mass of hair had created a curtain between her contorted face and the contents of the room, which was nothing, besides him. She was drenched with sweat and tears and the monster that stood before only sent alarm bells off all throughout her nervous system._

Her surroundings sharply came into focus for a moment, the yellowish, sepia like tone of the floor confusing her pupils as witches and wizards slowly amassed in a circle around her, like she was an animal in a circus. Like she was the entertainment.

Then, as quickly as she had slipped out of it, she was back in the memory.

 _A rough hand forcefully grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked back, a cry bursting forth from her lips. Her neck cracked, she could hear it more than she felt it, and her eyes darted around the ceiling that was comprised of no more than mud. "Where are you from?" An innocent question passed through her ear, but the voice, the voice was riddled with violence, and the male owner's breath was hot and sour on her filthy neck. "Who's blood is on your hands?"_

 _Her chest rose and fell in tiny quivers, terror gripping her consciousness in an iron first._ Who's blood is on your hands? _It echoed in her empty mind, and nothing followed. Just the subconscious knowledge that pain, terrible pain- was about to come. There was a heavy thud, the thud of a weapon-the victim didn't even know what it was-hitting the woman, who was barely more than a girl,'s thigh. And then her ribs, and then back. When her bawls did not satisfy the torturer, there was a sound of metal sliding from a sheath. The girl's frantic gasps morphed into cries that served as pleads when she figured out what was coming. She struggled against her binds, but they did more harm then good, causing the pain to just be greater, more plentiful. She wept, sobbed, as the blade neared her, and then a single word pierced the air in a scream; "_ NOOO!" _it was f_ _ollowed by thuds of thrashing against bindings fruitlessly, and then more screams- blood curdling, gut-wrenching screams- a sound worse then death._

Hermione felt the vision subside, her hands trembling, no- shaking, as terror at a long ago enemy still pulsed in her mind. Her once once beautiful, prized mind, that was now broken beyond repair. The hysteria grasped her like a snake encircling its prey, suffocating her.

" _HARRY!"_ she finally screamed, and the crowds went silent, along with the roaring in her head. "WHERE IS HARRY POTTER?" She was met with more silence, and her anger grew. " _WHERE IS HARRY POTTER_?" she repeated.

Minnie, behind her desk, moved a fraction of an inch. It was all Hermione needed. Seeing it, she dived for the worktable, feeding the sudden surge of power she felt to screaming, "DIFFINDO!" imagining the wand motion in her head, and the rope binding her being sliced by an invisible knife.

She snatched he newspaper that the witch had tried to conceal, and took off sprinting. Spells- hexes, curses, jinxes- all zipped through the air like bullets, narrowly missing her each time as she careered towards the fireplaces that were used to gain access to the floo network. There was a row of empty desks feet in front of her, and she cried, " _Protego maxima!" as_ she let herself fall to the ground and slide on the tile, behind the unoccupied desks. She flipped the copy of The Daily Prophet right side up, breathing heavily. And there, on the front page, was a picture of Harry and Ginny kissing in front of a house.

"Harry Potter and Longtime Sweetheart Ginny Weasly Move In" was the caption and the title of the article. It didn't say what the address was, but Hermione new that house like the back of her head. Harry and Ginny had moved back into 12 Grimauld Place.

* * *

Harry was startled out of his sleep on the couch when the fireplace, ten feet in front of him, roared to life in celestial green light. He lunged towards the coffee table for his wand, barely glancing up to see who it was.

"I have got to recast those protection charms," he murmured, as he whipped around, sending a stunning spell towards the hearth. A form dodged, and a female voice yelled, "LUMOS!" before stumbling forth, coughing.

Harry was stunned like his spell had rebounded and hit him. It couldn't be. There was no way.

"Her- Hermione?" he gasped, her name sounding foreign on his tongue. Her hair was platinum blond, sleek and straight, and cut short against the nape of her neck; she was wearing muggle clothes.

"Harry," she gasped between deep breaths. "Harry, Harry, the Ministry, I don't know why but- but Harry, they're after me-"

Confliction tore through Harry like he was paper being ripped in half; this was his best friend, the third member to the Golden Trio. It was Hermione, the one who he loved more than he could have ever loved a sister. But it was also the woman who betrayed him, betrayed them all. The woman responsible for his honorary family's death. And for that, he could not forgive even her.

With a shaky hand, he raised his wand at her yet again, his heart screaming in protest. "Proteg-"

"Not AGAIN! Protego duo!" Blue light crashed against Harry's, and before he could send a second spell her way, Hermione disarmed him with a another spell. He looked stunned for a moment, before meeting her hurt and confused eyes for a heartbeat, and then dove towards his wand on the floor.

"HARRY! Harry, what are you _doing?"_ She pounced towards his legs, catching his ankle and dragging him backwards, trying to choke back a sob- even Harry thought she was the enemy.

"Acci-" Harry began, shoving his once best friend off him. His stomach heaved and his head throbbed at the wrongness of this situation. This was Hermione, the girl he saved from a mountain troll. His heart shattered at the thought that that little girl was gone in a way so much worse than death.

Hermione's head hit the coffee table, sending a bolt of pain through her skull."SILENCIO! Accio wand!" She beat him to it, and Harry's wand flew into her outstretched palm. Tears built upon themselves, and before she knew it, she was crying, and Harry found himself on the wrong end of his own phoenix-feather wand. "Harry," she said as neither a question nor statement. His name was so familiar in her mouth, and yet to her mind it felt cold. Harry was gone, too, and that meant so was Ron.

She was completely and utterly alone.

At that moment, the fireplace roared, and the two wizards jumped, heads turning towards the hearth.

"Harry, Luna said to-" The redhead stopped mid-sentence, shock paralyzing her. The chain of her purse slipped from her fingers, the luxury leather bag landing on the floor with a soft thud. And then, her face broke, and her eyes changed to a state of such hatred that it turned Hermione's blood to ice. " _You fucking bitch,"_ she roared, her wand suddenly her white-knuckled hand, her lips forming the beginnings of one of her famous hexes.

Or so Hermione thought.

" _AVADA_ -"

" _NO, GINNY!"_ Harry lunged from his spot on the floor, knocking Ginny's wand from her hand.

" _HARRY_! _WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? SHE KILLED MY FUCKING FAMILY!"_

Hermione felt the strangled cry tumble from her mouth rather than heard it at her fellow witch's words. Killed Ginny's family? What could that possibly mean?

"Ginny, if you kill her, you go to _Azkaban!_ Do you understand me?" Harry bellowed above Ginny's screams, gripping her wrists within his own fists.

Hermione watched Ginny's crazed and angry gaze give way to an anguished one, and it cut deeper than a blade would.

 _She killed my fucking family._ It resonated through the ransacked house like Ginny was still screaming the tormented words.

Hermione's soul broke, and in a pop, she apparated.

She apparated away from the people she loved most in the word, who thought she murdered their family, still clutching the newspaper in her sweaty, shuddering hands.

* * *

Wind blustered in Hermione's face, the cold nipping at her skin and stinging her as if it were bees. She stuffed her hands deeper into her pockets, desperately trying not to process what had just occurred. She had no desire to think about what happened, so she attempted her best at blocking it out. Tears still wet her cheeks, and pain still laced her body, but it was bearable. Just barely, though.

She focused her energy on analyzing where she was; with a start, she realized that it was the same place she had taken Harry and Ron when the had fled Bill and Fleur's wedding: Tottemham Court Road. She almost laughed; she had thought that times were bad then. She thought they had gotten to be about as worse as they could get. She was wrong. So, so, wrong.

Dawn was breaking across the sky, and small mills of people were sauntering down the quaint road. Hermione kept her brisk pace down the sidewalk, listening to her shoes patter on the pavement. When she reached her destination, a small cafe that seemed to be the only one open at this hour, the thought crossed her mind that she didn't have any muggle money, or wizarding money -come to think of it- either.

She went into the cafe anyhow, though, and found herself in the same place she had nearly four years ago with Harry and Ron; the red and white checkered floor was the same, the cherry-red faux leather booths rimmed with chrome exactly as they had been, and even the selection of pastries and sandwiches on exhibit in the food display case near the cash register was the same as it was last time she was there.

She slid into the booth closest to the door in the right hand corner. She could hear plates and glasses clinking and thuds of bins being thrown into sinks, and water faucets running from inside the kitchen, but the Luchino Caffe Duel was otherwise silent and unoccupied. That was fine by her.

She spread the newspaper across the table in front of her, her hands still quivering.

On the front page of course, there was an article about Harry and Ginny, continued on page 6. She skipped past it, trying to forget she saw Harry's face. In the sports section, a page or two about a retiring Chudly Cannons player was featured, and so was a recap on the latest quidditch match.

She flipped in farther, looking for something interesting to read, something that could in some way help her.

She absentmindedly continued to flip through the pages as her head danced elsewhere, taking in words without reading them. All her life she had relied on plans, on knowledge, on facts. And now she had none of those.

And she had no idea what to do, so she tried to piece everything together. She went as far back as she could go, from her first memory as a muggle child, right up until that very moment.

It was like solving a puzzle: a 1,000 piece puzzle with only three pieces in the box. No, worse than that: a 1,000 piece puzzle with three piece left, staring at the wrong box cover. Her frustration grew until it bubbled over. She slammed the newspaper down, the table rattling.

A small, annoying voice whispered in the back of her brain. The old Hermione would never lose control. The old Hermione would have a plan. The old Hermione-

 _Fuck the old Hermione._

She cut off her own train of thought, and shoved her fingers into her hair, rubbing her eyes with her palms. She had forgotten that her locks had turned sleek and short, and this rediscovery only made her more irate.

She felt the anger twitch in the back of her spine, and it made her want to scream. She wanted to cry in frustration.

She yanked her hands down, slamming them on the table for a second time, and again for the second time causing the table to shake. Her chest heaved in fast, deep breaths, while tears turned her vision blurry.

 _Pull it together, Hermione._ The same, annoying voice.

Eager for a distraction, she turned back to the newspaper and discovered that she had already made it to the obituaries. She scanned the page, not with empathy, until her heart stopped dead.

She forgot her anger. She forgot her frustration.

The only thing in the world that existed were those few words.

Those _fucking_ words.

 **Lucius Malfoy**

 **1954-2001**

 **Funeral to be held on September 2 at Henley on Thames Church**

 **10 am**

 **The family requests no flowers**

No punctuation. Unaccompanied by a photograph.

Her eyes, the only organ in her body with functioning muscles, darted the specials board.

It had just been changed, she could tell by chalk dust at the corners of the board: September 2.

Just her luck.

The funeral was today.

* * *

Her hair was back.

That was what she was feeling best about in that moment, right before the sight of _him_ burst her false sense of happiness into millions of pieces. Of course he would be there, he was Lucius's son. A Malfoy.

She had know idea what she was expecting; trumpets blaring and parades in the streets maybe, but not this- this was sad. Not sad in a way of mourning, of regret for another's loss of life, but in a way that it was so pathetic it was sad. _But_ , she thought, _he deserved it_.

Draco was the only one there, even though there were tens of unoccupied chairs, waiting for guest who were never coming. For guests who didn't care. He was standing above his father's casket, his arms hanging limp at his sides, delivering a valiant speech. His hair was as blond as ever, and even though she had had another late growth spurt, Hermione could tell even from this far away that he was still heads above her.

She was so absorbed in her analyzing, she didn't notice it when the subconscious thought entered her mind to call out to him. Didn't notice when her muscles began to comply.

"Draco," The statement, not question or polite request for attention, broke across the air.

She didn't recognize her voice, or that she was the speaker of that one syllable, either, until a startled, shocked Malfoy turned to look at her.

When he spoke, it was in the same way she had; as a fact.

"Granger."

And just like that, it was pouring like it was the end of the world.

* * *

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	5. Part 1: Chapter 5

Draco had thought he had known surprise; he thought he knew the feeling of adrenaline coursing through his veins, but not out of fear, and the paralyzation of his mind's thoughts.

He didn't.

 _Draco._

 _Granger?_

Their miniscule conversation bounced in his head, ricocheting from every surface it hit.

Yes. It was Granger.

Standing in the pouring rain, wild, bushy hair flailing about in the wind, golden brown eyes as wide as saucers staring at him from ten yards away. He took in her beige trench coat, her blue and green sneakers; he looked her up and down without moving an inch, yet he just couldn't believe it. She didn't look like the pesky thirteen year old girl who always knew the answer. She looked like a woman on the right side of attractive, average in stature and slim and curvy.

But her physical development was not what captivated him; he was more interested in the look in her eyes, the ones as wide as saucers. The ones who looked scared, even though the yard was all but empty. The ones that flitted nervously, like someone could jump out from behind the church at any moment and try to take her away. Her eyebrows, thick and full, were drawn slightly, as if only to emphasize the look of internalized panic, and on top of that, her upper teeth were sunk into her bottom lip.

A memory flashed into his mind at the sight of those teeth; really, she had him to thank for them turning out so nicely.

Her complexion was near sallow, her hands that she kept at her thighs nervously bunching the sides of her coat, pale and trembling. She looked sick, unwell.

She looked haunted.

* * *

He had the look of a startled cow.

She didn't know why that particular barn animal, out of all the animals in the world, was the one that popped into her head when she saw his face. She was reminded of the time, again during her preHogwarts days, when she and her friends had gone to visit a farm. Delaney, she remembered, had climbed the fence encasing the cows in the pasture, declaring that she was going to see if she could ride one.

Even with her entourage of elementary school girl friends pleading to her no, she jumped, and missed the stupid cow.

Hermione and all of her friends had screamed and giggled at the same time and run up the fence. Delaney had fall inches beside the cow, who had let out a loud moo of protest, and had looked so startled Hermione remembered being surprised it hadn't spat out the grass it was chomping.

That was the expression that was currently splayed across Draco's face.

The bulging eyes, the parted lips, the raised eyebrows, everything reminded her of that split second from over a decade a go, and that was so utterly ridiculous that she couldn't suppress the laughter that was building in her stomach.

It was such a strange, old feeling that it left her in wonder, and it only made her want to laugh even more.

First she snorted, and then with the image of a fat cow mooing in surprise flickering in front of her, she burst into a full out bout of guffaws.

* * *

Draco was stunned. He was captivated by the haunted expression that shadowed her eyes. He wondered what had happened to her to give her that permanent feeling of unease. And that lead him to wonder where she had been all these years.

He had never for one moment believed she was guilty, even when he saw how Ron and Harry, her supposed friends, had slowly started to believe the whispers from inside the ministry. Hermione Granger was not a traitor. He could tell because he looked at one every time he glanced in a mirror, and he knew the hidden signs; Hermione had had none.

He didn't believe the court when they ruled her a war criminal, guilty of aiding Voldemort in the Second Wizarding War.

In fact, he had laughed in their faces from inside his own prison, a townhouse in London his family had owned since forever, in which he had been placed under house arrest, when it came on over the radio that the reward for her capture was over five hundred thousand galleons.

He had resisted the urge to spit on Potter and the entire Weasly family when he saw them in passing one day, not because of love for Granger, but because they had allowed themselves to so easily be turned against the girl the had sworn to love and protect, the girl they claimed meant the world to them.

But maybe he was biased.

Maybe his faith in Granger was a self conscious way of forgiving himself for believing his father's lies. After all, his argument for Granger was the same argument he spewed in defense for himself.

He was snapped from his thoughts when Hermione started to do something very odd, very odd indeed.

She started to laugh.

First, it came in a snort through her nose, and then quiet giggles, but it grew until she was doubled over and cackling.

And the sight of the most wanted witch in Britain, who was charged with several murders, war crimes, and of helping the darkest wizard to ever see the light of day bent over in the middle of a thunderstorm, laughing her head off at the funeral for his father, was so utterly inconceivable that it made him want to laugh too.

And he did.

They stood there, hair limp and stringy and stuck fast to their faces, eyes closed and heads thrown back, water running down their cheeks, laughing like maybe, just maybe, forgetting their problems for even just a moment would make life worth living.

* * *

A/N:

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